


this body that I own

by werewolfsquad



Series: last year's antlers [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, One Shot, Post-Canon, Sickfic, it's just the flu folks!, the smut is very brief and not the main focus of the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 06:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20990654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolfsquad/pseuds/werewolfsquad
Summary: Flu symptoms come on fast. In Arthur’s defense, hehadfelt fine that morning.





	this body that I own

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after the events of my long fic. Reading of that fic not strictly necessary to understand this fic, but it may be helpful for context, especially re: the way John acts/some events mentioned.

In Arthur’s defense, he _had_ felt fine that morning.

Sure, his throat had been a bit sore, his neck stiff, but all were things he’d dealt with before, had worked through before. Arthur found most of his problems regarding how his body functioned eventually went away if he pushed through them. And that had worked for the sore throats before, for the stiff necks, headaches, congestion. But none of them had ever led to him falling to the dirt outside the barn before, and _that_ was going to be a problem.

Sampson needed to be moved from the barn to a paddock. Seemed that was all Arthur was doing these days, moving horses around. Into the barn, out of it. In the training ring, around the ring, out again. Into the right pastures for turnout—or, on rare occasions, breeding—and then back out of them if he needed a particular horse for something. It wasn’t like he disliked the work—far from it—but it seemed a far cry from what he’d once expected his life to be. A good thing, for sure, seeing as he couldn’t ever remember being this happy, but destabilizing if he thought on it too long.

The big black shire had been on stall rest after a bout of lameness. He’d pulled something out in the pasture, as far as Arthur could tell, judging by the swelling on the lame leg. But, after a month of stall rest, just to be safe, it was time for the horse to start moving around again. Meant Arthur was planning to put him in one of the smaller paddocks, just enough for him to stretch his legs without reinjuring himself.

The dizziness came on suddenly. And he’d felt _fine_ until it hit.

He thought it was the sun, maybe, at least at first. It was the first sunny day in a while, still early in spring, so much that he’d been sweating a bit under his coat. And, sure, maybe he hadn’t been drinking as much water as was probably healthy, but it wasn’t like it was causing any issues.

Or, at least, it hadn’t been until Arthur had to grab a fence post to keep himself upright. And that didn’t help, just jarred him, made the dark splotches of color encroaching on his vision flicker, and he blinked once, twice—

Next thing Arthur knew, he was on the ground.

The world around came back in spurts, one sense at a time. His shoulder and hip throbbed where they’d hit the ground. Above him, Sampson was making a concerned sort of nicker and distantly someone was calling his name. Took a few moments for his vision to even out, and when the world finally stopped spinning, there was John Marston, blinking down at him.

And goddammit, this was going to be a _problem_.

* * *

It was largely a good thing, being married to Arthur Morgan. That was why John proposed in the first place. Arthur could be a prick, could be stubborn like no one else, but he was also loyal, and nice to look at, and could be real sweet when caught in the right mood. Sure, it didn’t mean there weren’t moments where John wished he could get away with chucking things at the man like he’d done when they were both younger, but, overall, John wouldn’t trade Arthur for the whole world.

As much as things were good, though, John should’ve just accepted by now that life with Arthur involved a whole lot of exasperation. It shouldn’t have surprised John that Arthur hadn’t told him he was feeling sick, and yet.

John had been repairing the fence of the sheep pen, replacing a couple of rails that had been knocked out of place during the winter now that the snow had melted, and that was the only reason he saw Arthur go down when he did. It was the stagger that drew his attention, an unusual movement out of the corner of his eye.

John opened his mouth, was already calling, “Hey, Arthur, you alright?”

And then Arthur collapsed hard to the ground, Sampson spooking sideways at the noise of it, and John had dropped the fence rail and was sprinting over before he even realized his feet were moving.

“Arthur! Arthur, Christ—"

Sampson was sniffing at Arthur by the time John got over to him, and John had to push the big horse’s head out of the way. The panic that had sparked sharp in his stomach was eased a touch when Arthur blinked up at him and immediately rolled his eyes, looked away from John with a huff.

If Arthur was aware enough to be annoyed, that was a lot of bad things ruled out. And a better sign still was Arthur immediately pushing himself up into a sitting position, which he did with little hesitation.

Still, “You alright?” John found himself asking.

“Fine.” It was a growl, sure, but there was a hoarse edge to it even then, and John was starting to get an idea what was wrong.

“Sure you are,” John said, moving to a crouched position in front of Arthur. “Fell pretty hard there.”

Arthur squinted up at him in a glare. “For your information, Marston, I have this handled.”

“So, what, you meant to end up on the ground?”

“Naw, just,” and Arthur made a vague gesture with his hand, “got dizzy a minute. S’the sun, reckon.”

“Sun?”

“Ain’t had a sunny day in a while. Warmer’n it’s been.”

“You think—” John cut himself off with a huff, because he knew Arthur, and of _course_ Arthur didn’t actually think it was overheating that caused him to faint. “C’mere.”

“’m _fine_—” Arthur started to say, started to pull away from John, but the words were broken with a ragged, wet cough.

And John sighed, because that was a familiar enough sentiment from Arthur, and reached out. Brushed Arthur’s hair from his forehead, replaced it with his hand, expecting before he even felt it the unmistakable heat in Arthur’s skin. “Sure, ‘cause havin’ a fever is completely normal. Y’know, you coulda said you were sick.”

“Felt fine this mornin’,” Arthur muttered, and John _knew_ it was a half-baked excuse.

“Sure you did.” And he shifted, grabbed at one of Arthur’s arms, tugged Arthur to his feet. “C’mon, you’re goin’ back to bed. Up you get.”

“Sampson—”

“He ain’t goin’ nowhere.” And the big shire wasn’t, not when he was content to graze on the few early sprigs of spring grass growing up outside the pasture fence. “I’ll deal with him once you’re _in bed_.”

Of course, it wasn’t like Arthur would come quietly. They weren’t even a few steps towards the house when Arthur shrugged off where John was gripping his arm. “Can walk on my own.”

John immediately grabbed at Arthur’s arm again. “And have you break somethin’ next time you go over? Ain’t interested.”

“You worry too damn much.”

“I would say I worry just the right amount, seein’ as you just goddamn fainted in the dirt.”

“Didn’t _faint_—”

“You got some other explanation how you ended up in the mud then?” Hell, Arthur even had the dirt covering his shoulder to prove it.

But Arthur just turned, gave John a glare. “I ain’t some rich lady what got spooked by somethin’ she ain’t never seen before.”

“You’re just lucky it was Sampson you was with. Reckon Buell woulda seized the opportunity and trampled you.”

“Believe you’re confusing me with yourself there, Marst—” But Arthur broke up into coughing again, and John decided he’d had enough of this arguing.

“_Go inside_, Arthur.”

* * *

There were many situations in which Arthur would be happy to have John stripping him of his clothing in their bedroom. This was not one of them, not with the way John tugged at the fabric of his union suit, said, “Christ, you know this is soaked through, right?”

Arthur huffed a sigh, even as John started in on the buttons. “I’m sure if I didn’t, you would tell me.”

“Shut up, Arthur.”

John seemed to have taken it upon himself to be resident caretaker, which, seeing as Abigail couldn’t exactly fill the role currently, was a fair enough. Seemed determined to do it while annoying Arthur as much as possible, though. Insisting on Arthur getting into bed, and not even letting him undress himself. Even undid the goddamn buttons for him before tugging the union suit off. But it wasn’t until John pulled away the cord around Arthur’s neck that he’d strung his ring from, John muttering some explanation about not wanting Arthur to choke in his sleep, that Arthur snapped, “Ain’t exactly helpless—”

“Shut _up_, Arthur,” John repeated, thrust a clean union suit his way. “Now put this on, and get in bed. Ain’t gonna ask twice.”

Arthur might’ve argued if his throat hadn’t seized, sending him into a fit of coughing, and all that seemed to do was justify whatever idea John had in his head, because he shoved Arthur towards the bed. Not unkindly, of course, seeing as he followed the shove up with pushing Arthur down to sit on the bed and rubbing his back, waiting for the coughing to subside, but Arthur still felt frustration bubbling inside him.

Goddamn John Marston. Lucky Arthur loved him.

Finally the coughing eased, and John pressed a glass of water into Arthur’s hand that Arthur couldn’t puzzle through how he got his hands on, seeing as he’d been with Arthur the whole time. But that didn’t matter, not when John was standing, starting to cross the room. “‘nd where are you goin’, then?”

John turned, eyed him, said, in that same old forceful tone of voice, “Gonna ride into town, get Dr. Mayer.”

“Don’t need that—”

“You hear yourself, Morgan? You need all the help you can get. Get into goddamn bed, alright?” And then, only once Arthur started making a decent enough start on pulling his legs up onto the bed, lying down, John continued in a gentler tone of voice, “I’ll put Sampson away ‘fore I go, so don’t worry yourself none.”

Arthur grumbled at that, but eased himself down onto the pillow anyway, closed his eyes as he heard the door to the room shut behind John. As much as he wanted to resist John’s more abrasive care, the truth was, he was starting to feel something less than well. His head spinning again, body suddenly cold despite the blankets on the bed, and it felt like he had barely blinked by the time the door opened again.

Rather than John having forgot something, though, the figure that entered his room was decidedly different. “Abigail?”

The voice that came out of Arthur’s throat was something harsh and hoarse, and even that much sent him into a coughing fit again. Abigail, though, just smiled at him, or at least that was what Arthur was guessing based on the way her eyes crinkled, seeing as a cloth was wrapped over her nose and mouth. “John told me you were sick, ‘fore he rode off.”

Arthur cleared his throat, hating how the illness made even that painful. “John needs to keep his mouth shut.”

Though her belly was nowhere near as round as it was going to get, there was still a curve to it, most noticeable when she bent down, laid a second blanket over his bed. It still sent a pang through Arthur’s chest when he saw it, no matter how often that was, seeing as they lived in the same house and all. Too many memories it stirred, both good and bad.

Which, come to think of it, “Shouldn’t be in here.” As much as Arthur liked Abigail’s company, she was pregnant, and as little as Arthur knew about medicine, he did know that being sick while with child was not a good combination.

But Abigail shook her head. “Don’t you tell me what’s good for me, Arthur. Chances are, John’s gonna get sick too, way he’ll get. I’m just tryin’ to make it easier on all of us when I’m the one watchin’ over a sick house, ‘specially since Jack’s gonna need to pick up chores.”

There was a fog to Arthur’s brain now, enough that he only picked up handfuls of words. Still, Jack— “He ain’t need t’—”

Abigail cut him off with a snort. “He’s nine, Arthur, he can stand to do a few chores when one of us is sick. Swear he’s gonna get spoiled, way you treat him.”

Arthur just grumbled, turned his head away. The kid deserved some spoiling, by Arthur’s opinion, things he’d been through. Never mind that they’d lived away from that life five years now. Who was he to claim the role of the strict father, when he’d wanted so much to give Jack a happy life? It was so easy most days, even years removed, to fall into anger, to go back to the person he’d hidden behind for so long. He had to make conscious choices not to be that man, and he wasn’t about to let Jack see any shade of that person he’d once meant to be.

So, sure, maybe he spoiled the kid.

Abigail paused a moment longer, and, maybe when it was clear Arthur wasn’t going to reply, sighed, crossed her arms, said, “John’s gonna be insufferable with you laid up, you know.”

Arthur rolled his head back to face her, blinked once. “S’at so?”

“Mmm,” Abigail nodded. “Shoulda seen him when you was shot. Thought he was near about to lose his mind with it. ‘nd ‘cause you were healin’ up, I got the brunt of all that surliness.”

Huh. That tracked, just about, seeing how bad John had been when Arthur had woken back up, but it was different hearing it out loud. Still, “He’s a fool, s’what he is.”

That got a smile out of Abigail, but it was a soft sort. “I’m just sayin’, go easy, alright? He may be your fool, but he’s mine too, and I know he worries about you.”

“Worries too damn much,” Arthur said, closing his eyes. More for posterity than anything else, seeing as the swelling in his head was making it harder and harder to think. He loved John, he knew. Just had a reputation to keep up.

He heard Abigail step forward, and then there was a hand on his forehead. “For the record, you’re my friend, Arthur, hell, my family now, and I care about you too. So, rest up. Gonna make it easier on the rest of us.”

Arthur just hummed an acknowledgement, finding he couldn’t even bring himself to open his eyes anymore. But Abigail didn’t hold it against him, at least judging by the way she gave a low sort of chuckle, tugging the blankets a little further up his shoulders, said, “Shout if you need anythin’.”

He wouldn’t, of course, not while there was still a risk of getting her sick, but the both of them knew that already.

* * *

Arthur didn’t take well to the doctor’s examination. John knew he wouldn’t, of course, as Arthur was never one to take well to being cared for, and to being worried after even worse. But, even then, this was particularly bad, maybe some symptom of the rapid fever that was now muddling his brain. Kept doing what John could unkindly describe as fussing as Dr. Mayer looked him over: pulling away from the thermometer when Mayer tried to get his temperature, flinching away from the light shone in his eyes, not sitting still when the man placed a stethoscope on his chest. Nearly kicked Lace off the bed at one point by accident, the dog having decided that the idea of Arthur spending all day in bed was a gift to her, and, even then, Arthur didn’t stop fighting it.

But the doctor was persistent, determined to finish the job he was being paid for. It was only once Mayer managed to get some tonic down Arthur’s throat, something that made him relax, go something close to boneless, that the doctor stood, looked at John where he’d been standing for the entirety of the examination, not wanting to leave Arthur alone. Stated, bluntly, “It’s flu.”

And, though he knew flu was, by all intents, mild, it still sent a pang through John’s chest. “What, Russian flu?” They had been up in Illinois when that particular pandemic was at its worst. Bad business, that.

But Mayer shook his head. “No, just your run of the mill flu. Mr. Milton should be fine with rest.”

Arthur rolled his head to face them, and even from the distance John was at, he looked bleary, eyes not entirely focused. Still, his tone was something just shy of I-told-you-so when he said, “Hear that? Gonna be fine, John.”

And that made John nearly wince, hearing Arthur use his real name. Arthur’s fever had gotten worse since he rode to get the doctor, and, though it wasn’t bad enough for the overwhelming confusion that had plagued him after Dutch’s bullet, it was apparently enough for some of their safety standards to start slipping. The doctor likely wouldn’t think anything of it, seeing as they were, by all accounts, the farm family that had lived there long enough to be established and well liked, but that didn’t mean John liked it.

Still, best to act like it was nothing, a slip of the tongue. “Do _you_ hear it? _Rest_, Arthur.”

Arthur snorted, coughed, turned his head back to the ceiling, and there was the urge to hit him again, always so easily in John’s grasp. Goddamn frustrating bastard.

But Arthur was sick, and they were goddamn married now, and John hated seeing Arthur laid up, hated the way it made his stomach turn. He’d seen Arthur close to death enough times that he likely couldn’t count them all on one hand, and it hadn’t gotten any easier to think about losing the man. Worse, in fact, seeing what John had lost when getting out of the life, and what he knew Arthur to be to him now.

Sure, Arthur probably wouldn’t die from the flu. But nothing was ever certain with sickness, and the bad memories were pain enough with how they itched. Russian flu, Arthur nearer death than not, all of it loss that sat like a tight fist in his belly.

John found himself following the doctor as he stepped out of the room, asking, quiet, “How you know it ain’t—that he’s gonna be okay?”

Mayer glanced up at him, and his expression was somewhere between gentle and exasperated. “Well, for one, flu is rarely dangerous, and especially not for men your brother’s age. Second, I’ve seen to the woman that likely got your brother sick, and she made it out fine.”

And that stumbled John. “Wait, what—what woman?”

Mayer’s eyebrows dropped, and he straightened, like John’s words had been a surprise. “Mr. Milton brought a woman into my clinic a few days ago. Said he’d come up on her husband trying to repair a broken wagon wheel enough to get her to town to be seen by me. Hadn’t wanted to leave her alone to ride for me to make a house call when her fever was at its worst. Mr. Milton offered to ride Mrs. Haverhill to town while Mr. Haverhill got the wagon fixed. That was probably where he picked the sickness up.”

Goddamnit, Arthur. John bit his lip, glanced away. “Right, that—that sounds like him.”

Even out of the corner of his eye, John could tell Mayer still had a curious sort of look on his face. “It was a kind thing he did. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t tell you.”

John wasn’t. “He ain’t the type lookin’ for glory from anyone, and ain’t ever gonna expect a reward for doin’ somethin’ good. Probably thought it was none of my business, all told. He—he don’t care one bit ‘bout his own health. Not when—” _Not when he thinks he could make up for the things he’s done_, John’s mind supplied. But that wasn’t something he could say in front of a stranger, not that he and Arthur had been raised by a man who expected their devotion in body and soul, not that Arthur had thought that his only source of value was how he could wear his body down for others. Not that, as much as Arthur’d quit trying to get himself killed in exchange for what he’d done, some habits were hard to break.

Ended up muttering instead, “Stupid goddamn bastard.”

“I’ll say it again. Your brother _will_ be fine, Mr. Milton. The flu isn’t serious, and he’s otherwise healthy.”

John rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. Sure, Arthur might _seem_ healthy, but the man was an expert at hiding his hurting. “Right, just even with—I mean, the faintin’? Went down goddamn _hard_.”

Mayer’s eyes narrowed a touch, and his voice was firm but not unkind when he said, “I’ve been at this a long time. I know what I’m saying.”

And that made John turn his head a touch, an embarrassed sort of warmth creeping up his cheeks. Here he was, arguing with a doctor just trying to help. Seemed he’d picked up some bad habits from Arthur. “Right, just—last family I got, y’know?”

In lieu of a real response, Dr. Mayer just held out a small glass bottle. “Rest, water, cool baths and cold rags for the fever. Spoonful of this tonic—” Mayer passed it to John— “every few hours. Fetch me if it gets a fair bit worse.”

And then, with not much to-do, Dr. Mayer was out the door. And John knew he didn’t have much other choice in his own mind than to go back to Arthur.

When he reentered the room, Arthur’s eyes were closed, chest rising and falling softly. Not a great tone to his breathing, sure, but nothing concerning, nothing like the worst John had ever seen Arthur at.

But John couldn’t help himself settling on the bed, running a hand gentle over Arthur’s shoulder, collarbone, jaw, cheek. Reminding himself that Arthur was here, alive, going to be fine. This wasn’t a life anymore where one of them suddenly might not be around to see the next morning. 

It did, of course, wake Arthur up, because Arthur slept light, even this long after they’d been safe, even sick and fevered. His eyes blinked open, and he squinted up at John. Blinked again, asked, “What s’it?”

Arthur speech was muddled, a touch slurred, likely, by John’s guess, because whatever was in the tonic that the doctor had given him was starting to kick in. And John knew he should just let it go, ignore what Mayer had told him, because it was, after all, a kind thing Arthur did, helping a sick woman. Still, something in him could never let these sorts of things sit. “Can’t believe you’re the one always callin’ me a fool when you’re worse’n I’ve ever been.”

Arthur snorted, apparently still clear minded enough to know when he was being chided. “Always somethin’ with you.”

“Give a sick woman a ride and somehow think you ain’t gonna get sick too?”

Arthur’s eyes slipped closed again, and John almost felt guilty about keeping Arthur awake. Only almost, because there were some lines he had to draw. “Don’t matter if I got sick. Weren’t gonna—weren’t gonna leave them, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” John said, sighed. He did know that, given a second chance at it, Arthur would do the same exact thing every time, just the same as if he found a man snakebit, or with his foot in a trap. John wasn’t ever going to change that of Arthur, and it was only sometimes he wanted to. “Y’know, all this would be a lot easier if you were meaner.”

That got a low chuckle out of Arthur, something that just as quickly broke into a few wet coughs. Took Arthur a second to catch his breath before he muttered back, “Reckon if I was, we’d’a killed each other by now.”

“Get some rest, Arthur.” And then, when Arthur hummed his agreement, “Guess I’ll go get some goddamn towels.”

* * *

There were a lot of things John would never tell Arthur about that long night when his fever was at its highest. He wouldn’t tell Arthur that, despite the doctor’s assurances that Arthur would be fine with rest, John stayed up and stayed sleepless, changing out wet cloths on Arthur’s forehead, because he was afraid if he fell asleep, Arthur would be gone when he woke. He wouldn’t tell Arthur about calming him in the aftermath of fever dreams where Arthur woke panicked and terrified, names on his lips that John had tried not to think about in years, and not about eventually climbing into bed beside Arthur and holding him just to assure Arthur he was there. And he certainly wouldn’t tell Arthur about nearly being brought to tears by returning to the room with a clean water pitcher and seeing Arthur clutching the ring John had given him, the one on a cord that John had absentmindedly put on the bedside table the previous day, in his palm like a lifeline. 

As vulnerable as they allowed themselves to be around each other now, there were still some bits John kept to himself. Some things that he wouldn’t know the words to talk about right.

So, of course, Arthur knew about none of it. What he _did_ know was waking up, bleary and hurting, to find John slumped in a chair next to his bed, something sour in the expression on his face. And, as much as John was the person Arthur loved above all else, he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the prospect of dealing with a sour John when he was having trouble even keeping his eyes open.

But John wasn’t looking at Arthur, instead was looking with unfocused eyes off in the middle distance, and Arthur had to clear his throat to get his attention. Turned out to be a mistake, of course, because even as John’s eyes snapped to Arthur’s face at the noise, a fire rippled down Arthur’s throat, aching and dry after a night fevered. He was rocketed into a fit of coughing, sitting bolt upright before curling in on himself, something that sent John scrambling forward.

“Christ, Arthur, hold—hold on.” And then John had a glass of water in his hand, and he was pressing it into Arthur’s grip. Still took Arthur another handful of moments to get himself under control, coughs subsiding, before he managed to lift the glass, get down a few gulps of water.

“Alright?” John finally asked, and Arthur thought that was a relative question. No longer at risk of coughing up a lung, sure, but his throat still burned, muscles aching, and his head wasn’t particularly happy with the sudden movement of sitting up, seeing as it was still spinning.

In lieu of answering, he just muttered, voice a harsh crackle in his throat, “Mornin’ to you too.”

Something in John’s expression softened, just a bit, and he sat back in the chair, letting Arthur ease himself back onto the mattress. Still not wearing a particularly pleasant face, of course, but it was hard to expect John to be pleasant at the best of times.

But John was still _looking_ at him, something in his expression that Arthur was hard pressed to identify. “You’re—” John started, and then, like his mind had jumped elsewhere— “How, how you feelin’?”

Arthur shrugged. “Ain’t ‘bout to rob a bank, I’ll tell you that.”

A sharp snort out of John, and an expression akin to annoyance was back on his face. “Could actually tell me what you’re feelin’, for once.”

But Arthur wasn’t particularly inclined to do that, not when the answer was just something generally poor, but far out of danger. “What’s the damage?”

John settled back in his chair, rolled his shoulders. Wasn’t looking at Arthur, even as he said, “Fever broke, couple hours ago. Ain’t anywhere near gone, ‘nd could spike again, but it’s gettin’ better, reckon. Doctor said you should be fine, if you don’t remember him sayin’ so.”

Sounded about right. Flu weren’t serious, not to anyone but the young or the old, and, as much as Arthur was getting aged now, he wasn’t so old that he was in that particular demographic.

And, yet, still John was staring at him, eyes red along the edges, like he’d just informed Arthur he had typhoid.

Arthur cleared his throat, winced, said, “So I’m gonna be fine.”

“Mmm.”

“Why the hell are you lookin’ at me like I’m dyin’, then?”

That was the wrong thing to say, and Arthur knew it immediately by the way John’s eyes jerked back to him, eyebrows low. Became more certain when John snapped, “What, am I supposed to act like there ain’t nothin’ wrong?”

“John—” Arthur tried, but John interrupted.

“No, Arthur, I just—I don’t like seein’ you fevered, alright? That’s the long and short of it. Why—why can’t you just tell me this shit, next time? It’s like you think I ain’t—that I’m not—goddamn—” And then, quieter, like John was trying to measure his reaction for once, “Goddamn stupid son of a bitch. Coulda—coulda done somethin’, right?”

Ah. Well, that made sense. Maybe Arthur should’ve even guessed it was the case, seeing as Abigail had said it already. John didn’t like seeing Arthur hurt, and it was harder on him thinking it could’ve been prevented. As much as he and John still fought, they’d been together near four years now, and Arthur knew near everything about the other man. He knew why John was upset. Should’ve known from the beginning, if he’d only thought it through.

So he took a breath, ignored the itch to cough, said, “Listen to me, John. I ain’t lied to you. Came on damn quick, and ‘til I went down I thought I just slept on somethin’ wrong, or it was just some passin’ thing. I’m sorry I ain’t—ain’t so good at that whole… whole knowin’ when to rest thing, or whatever. None of it were ever meant to hurt you, but it did, so I’m sorry I ain’t said somethin’. But I’m okay, John. Don’t feel too great, but I ain’t dyin’.” And then, because he couldn’t stand letting it sit in the air, “Okay?”

“Sure, Arthur. I know.” John’s voice something resigned, but that was okay, because Arthur could see some of the tension leeched from his shoulders. More, too, when John huffed a sigh, said, “Why we always gotta fight just to talk to each other?”

And that was an easy answer. “’cause we’re both stubborn bastards that ain’t learned no different,” Arthur muttered.

John made a huffing noise that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t sound so damn exhausted. Arthur was looking at his face closer now, eyeing the dark shadows under his eyes, the sallow edge to his skin. Knew that particular John, knew him from the worst days on the run, when they couldn’t even manage to camp overnight for risk of being found. Asked, already knowing the answer, “You been up all night, ain’t you?”

John said nothing, just nodded, and Arthur could guess well enough what had been on his mind those dark hours, judging by their previous conversation.

Still, “Gonna get sick too, John, doin’ that.”

John just rolled his shoulders. “Was gonna get sick anyway. Didn’t… ah, I dunno.”

A smile was creeping up on Arthur’s face, and he knew it was something fond. Rather than acknowledge it, he shifted, lifted up the blankets on the bed. When John gave him a questioning look, Arthur just jerked his head. “C’mon. Need some rest, and you ain’t wanna give Abigail whatever mess this sickness is.”

John didn’t hesitate, just like Arthur knew he wouldn’t. Earnest to a fault, John was, even at thirty-four. Stripped his clothing off, climbed into bed next to Arthur. Ended up in a mess of limbs, but Arthur didn’t mind it, not when his still slightly fever-addled brain wanted so badly for John to be next to him, and not when John was asleep near instantly after his head hitting the pillow.

* * *

It was only after Arthur’s fever had dropped to something nearer to normal that John, on Abigail’s suggestion, proposed a bath. Arthur didn’t disagree, John guessed probably because he was near desperate to wash the dried sweat from his skin and hair.

It wasn’t a particularly hot bath, not when they couldn’t risk spiking Arthur’s fever again, but it was warm enough to let the tension wash from Arthur’s muscles, something John could nearly see as soon as Arthur sunk into the water. Leaned his head back against the rim of the tub, just sat for a spell, eyes closed, let the water soak into him.

It was a long moment, John already settled back into a chair, before Arthur said, “Don’t gotta sit there and watch me.”

John knew what that was, a clear invitation for him to leave if he wanted to. After all, the reason he was here in the first place was to make sure Arthur didn’t fall getting into the bath in his not-quite-healthy state, so he could just as easily see to something else now that it was clear Arthur wasn’t going to pass out.

But John wasn’t particularly inclined to do that. And maybe that fact, the fact that John was reluctant to let Arthur leave his sight for longer than it took to piss until he was fully well, was something Arthur knew. After all, Arthur had heard John’s whole outburst a few days ago, probably wasn’t about to forget it any time soon.

And, instead of leaving, John had another idea. “Hey, uh, scooch—scooch forward a minute.”

Arthur peeled one eyelid open. “Why?”

“Gonna—” Arthur probably wouldn’t accept that John just wanted to be close to him, so, “Gonna brush your hair out. Ain’t gonna be pretty if y’wait ‘til it’s dry.”

And Arthur sighed, but slid forward, just as John knew he would. Let John strip down, climb in the tub behind him, water slopping up and threatening to overflow the sides as he settled down. Because that was the thing, of course: one of the few ways to get Arthur to allow himself to be helped was to convince him that the results of not being helped would be a greater inconvenience than the help itself.

It wasn’t a particularly comfortable fit, not when the tub was designed for one occupant in mind and neither of them were exactly small men to begin with, but John didn’t mind, and neither did Arthur, judging by the way he settled back, back to John’s chest, John’s legs bracketing his own. A shade of intimacy a far cry from what they used to be, and John could never forget how lucky he’d gotten.

Though John was taller than Arthur, it wasn’t by more than two inches at most, and so Arthur had to sit low in the water for John to be able to reach his hair. He’d plucked his own comb from the vanity in the corner of the room, knew it just about as well as he knew his own skin at this point, and so knew how to work it through Arthur’s hair without pulling.

While Arthur’s hair wasn’t nearly as long as John tended to keep his own, seeing as the man started getting annoyed with it when it got long enough to lay hot on the neck, it was still enough to need to be combed out after sleep, and three days of sickness-induced rest even more so. Meant John had a task on his hands, detangling Arthur’s hair as the man in question went to work scrubbing the soap over his skin.

They were quiet a spell, like that, both of them focused on their own tasks. John was pleased to note that Arthur’s movements got less stiff the longer they were in the water, at least between his intermittent curses at the snarled mess that was Arthur’s hair. If it was his own hair, John would’ve just tugged at it until it gave, but he tried to be more careful when it came to Arthur.

They’d been at it a while when Arthur murmured, quiet, “Was thinkin’.”

“Hmm?” John hummed back, working through one last large tangle.

Arthur paused, cleared his throat, said, slow, “This kid? If it’s—if it’s a girl? Maybe—maybe we call her Elizabeth. Bess for short. If—if Abigail agrees, course.”

That got John to pause. “You—you wanna help name it?”

“Sure, thought—thought, seein’ as we keep sayin’ we’re a family n’all—and, and with Bessie… right?”

Arthur’s voice had dropped into something unsure, and that was far from what John wanted. “Arthur—”

“Listen, if you ain’t—if you think it oughta be you and Abigail, I, I get that, right, but—but I reckoned—”

“_Arthur_.”

Finally Arthur trailed off, still against John’s chest, and John found himself wishing he could see Arthur’s eyes, know better what was on his mind. Asked, instead. “How long you been thinkin’ ‘bout this?”

Arthur huffed a breath, and somehow even that came across as reluctant in tone. “Long while now.”

And hadn’t dared say anything to John in all that time, because something in Arthur _still_ had doubt. “Listen, Arthur. You’re my goddamn husband. Sure, we oughta ask Abigail, but, far as I’m concerned, you got just as much a right as me to go suggestin’ names for this kid. So—so just—ain’t—ah, Jesus, I dunno how to say it.”

“Makes two of us, reckon,” Arthur said, but his voice was fond, even more so when he continued, “Christ, we’re a bunch a fools, ain’t we?”

“Wouldn’t trade it for the goddamn world,” John murmured.

It was like nothing else, the way his feelings for Arthur churned in his stomach. It’d taken so goddamn for Arthur to accept his role in their little family, to understand how important he was to the folks around him. Sure, most of the time he was inclined to forget that, or discount it, or doubt it, but the fact—the fact he thought well enough of his place to suggest a name for the goddamn kid? They were getting somewhere. And the joy of it burned in John’s chest.

He’d finished with the hair now, all of it laying slick but untangled against Arthur’s skull. And John found, once he dropped the comb, that he didn’t want to let Arthur go quite yet. Christ, he loved Arthur, and all the sickness did was reiterate that in his mind. Luckiest goddamn son of a bitch alive to have what he got, to have Arthur and Abigail and this ranch and Jack and another kid on the way.

It started with arms around Arthur’s chest, hooking the other man back against him, John wanting as much of Arthur pressed against him as possible. And then it was kissing, not on the lips at the angle they were at, but behind Arthur’s ears, down his neck, across his shoulders, anywhere John could feasibly reach. But it wasn’t until Arthur had relaxed back against him that the moment came to its inevitable conclusion, John slipping a hand down Arthur’s navel and wrapping his palm, soft with soaking in the water, around Arthur’s soft cock.

Arthur made a noise something like a grumble, and John paused, asked, “You want me to stop?”

Arthur snorted, shook his head. “Want you to get on with it.”

“Christ, you’d think my hands are the only thing I’m good for.”

“Not the _only_ thing,” Arthur said, more of a sigh as he slipped a little deeper into the water, as John worked his fingers over his cock, now fully hard. “Got a pretty nice dick too.”

“And you call _me_ a child.”

Arthur just chuckled, tipped his head back, let it rest against John’s collarbone.

This was, John thought, one of the most attractive sides of Arthur he had the privilege to regularly see now. Soft, pliant, letting John give to him what he deserved. Arthur’s hips canted up just a touch to make the best angle for John’s strokes, his arms rested on either side of the tub, back of his head twisting against John’s chest. Letting John be in charge, knowing they would still reach a satisfying end.

It wasn’t about the power, as, after all, John found himself less and less concerned with the things Dutch had wanted the further removed he was from the man. No, John liked this Arthur for the trust, for the way he spread his legs for John, let John slip a hand further down, letting the water ease his way as much as it could—never as good as vaseline in that regard—as John pressed a finger up against Arthur’s entrance and sunk it inside of him. Arthur let him in, knowing John would only take what was entrusted to him, just as Arthur would do the same when John was the one spreading his legs.

So what if Arthur wasn’t the best at saying when he was sick, when he was hurting? So what if they would always be working to find ways around the bits of bad habits that still plagued them? John trusted the man with his life, would do anything for him, and he knew Arthur would do the same. They’d get through this and be better for it, like everything else before.

Finally, John found the sweet spot inside Arthur, and it was only a few more strokes over Arthur’s cock with just the right twist of the wrist, the man arching and making soft noises against John, until Arthur came, a low noise pried from his chest of the sort John never tired of.

And that was a firm enough end to the bath, considering the water was now soiled.

Arthur offered to reciprocate as they climbed out of the bath, started drying off, but John, despite his hardness, declined. They had time enough for all that later, when Arthur was fully well. This had been about Arthur, about letting him have what he deserved after a bout of sickness.

Still, he couldn’t help himself in indulging in some old habits. Drew Arthur close with a hand on the arm after they’d both toweled off some, and, only once he and Arthur were near touching, said, just for the look on Arthur’s face, “Better’n them bath girls, ain’t I?”

“Christ, shut it,” Arthur said, brought a hand up to push John’s face away from him, only John was ready for it, caught Arthur’s wrist in his hand and pushed forward into a kiss.

It never got old, kissing Arthur. Even moments like this, relatively chaste considering what they’d just been doing, just lips on lips, John relished, wanted to last as long as the world would give to him. There would never be enough time in this lifetime for how often he wanted to kiss Arthur, and so he savored every moment, one of Arthur’s hands resting light on John’s forearm, the other still gripped in John’s palm. John’s free hand on the side of Arthur’s jaw, slipping soft into Arthur’s still wet hair.

John found himself making a displeased noise when his hands met a tangle there, and Arthur pulled away, his brows lowered in a question.

“Your goddamn hair’s already got knots,” John muttered, leaning his forehead against Arthur’s, immediately feeling the furrowed lines there smooth over. “You know how long that took?”

Arthur snorted, a smug sort of noise. “Guess you’ll just have’ta do it again, seein’ as it’s your fault n’all.”

And that was true, seeing as the only possible cause was when Arthur’s head had been tipped back against John’s chest. Still, “Bastard,” John muttered, and then kissed Arthur again. Just a brief peck on the lips, but still something warming all the same.

Arthur’s chuckle as he pulled away was a rumble through John’s chest more than anything else. “Definitely gonna get sick now.”

“Was worth it, Arthur.” Christ, moments like these were worth the whole goddamn world.

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna have Arthur say that John had a nice ass in one of those last bits of dialogue until I remembered John had practically no ass to speak of. Anyway, if you enjoyed, let me know!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [werewolfsquadron](http://werewolfsquadron.tumblr.com). Title is from Ra Ra Riot's "[Binary Mind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYmA0UuW1dU)".


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